


Letters From My Windmill

by mydogwatson



Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Epistolary, M/M, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25404949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Sherlock is away from home and bored, up until the moment he isn’t.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827328
Comments: 20
Kudos: 72





	Letters From My Windmill

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Письма с мельницы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29461272) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> I had hoped to post this yesterday, for a certain birthday, but an unexpected and painful tooth extraction delayed things a bit. But here it is and surprise! It is actually the length a postcard tale is really meant to be. Although not with a great deal of self-control on my part. Despite its briefness, I hope you will enjoy it. Let me know! Until next time...

Watson,

I must offer my sincerest apology to you for removing myself from Baker Street so precipitously, before you had even left your bed yesterday morning. The only excuse I can offer is that we have not co-habited for so very long and I am, as yet, unaccustomed to sharing any part of my life with another. I suspect that you are already quite aware that I am not the most courteous of men, but even so, I recognise that merely bellowing at poor Mrs Hudson “Off out!” as I exited the building was an inadequate explanation.

Please do not take my carelessness as any slight upon yourself. On those few investigations upon which we have thus far collaborated, your assistance has been invaluable, as well as surprisingly pleasant. But, when the letter arrived, whilst I was dressing, the matter seemed so urgent and so filled with enticing hints at a challenge, that I quite forgot the proprieties and found myself on the train before thinking of you.

Oh, damnation, that was a dreadfully rude thing to say, and if you have not already dismissed me as beyond the pale because of my absent-minded abandonment, that remark no doubt sealed my fate.

Still, I will chance that your essential kindly nature might grant me forgiveness yet again.

At this time, I cannot reveal my exact location to you, as I fear that Dr Watson, physician and soldier, would be inclined to grab up his pistol and run to aid me. And I must admit that the idea has considerable appeal. But, sadly, the situation is delicate and so I must remain solitary at the moment. If that disappoints you at all, please know that I feel that same emotion. Hateful things, emotions.

It might interest you to know that I am able to look out upon a most pastoral scene, hateful in its bucolic aspect, but you know that I am more the city mouse. Still, the vast field of yellow oilseed rape below me is a pleasant sight and it seems to delight the local bee population.

Have I ever mentioned to you that I would like, one day, to have an apiary where I would keep bees? There is research to be done on honey production that could keep me cheerfully occupied when chasing villains no longer appeals. Thinking on this, gives me cause to wonder if you have any dreams of your own future?

But now the local lad who is supplying my daily bread and cheese is approaching, so I must seal this letter up so that he might dispatch it.

I can only once again beg your forgiveness and add that I truly wish you might be here with me. Already, I am quite spoiled by having your reliable figure by my side and the lack of that companionship is irksome.

Sincerely,  
S. Holmes

*  
Watson,

You see how terribly bored I am, having been forced to amuse myself by sketching the field below my lair and the dancing bees that love the pollen-heavy rape blossoms. Think of this offering as one of those ‘picture postal cards’ that are becoming so popular with travellers. If nothing else, let it show that I am thinking of my friend.

-S. Holmes

*

My Dear Watson,

The days drag on here and my patience grows thin. If the situation were not so dire and growing more so every day, I would be most happy to depart this place and scurry back to Baker Street. The pleasures of sitting in my chair, pipe and brandy in hand, you in your chair, as we ruminate over the news of the day together, all seem very far from me now.

Oh, I do apologise for the dreadful sentimentality in these missives. You must find it all so tedious, but the hours spent sitting in this place, gazing down at the countryside that surrounds me, have begun to eat away at my patience. Sometimes, I wonder if my mind might be slowly crumbling.

Have you perhaps noticed signs of incipient madness in the words I send?

So no doubt you have wondered about the case that holds me prisoner here. Or, perhaps, it is only my vanity that leads me to believe that you might be thinking of me at all.

But on the chance you might be curious, I can share a few details with you to relieve the ennui. My ennui, at least. For all I know, you might be engaged in activities that keep you greatly entertained. It is possible that you have discovered that life without your mercurial friend is to be preferred. Perhaps you are dining out in congenial company, spending evenings at your club playing billiards and exchanging war stories, taking tea with a delightful young woman with an eye towards matrimony. Oddly, all those thoughts unsettle me. I wonder why.

Never mind. I promised you details of this blasted mystery.

It all begins with a family curse.

Not truly, of course, but the ancient lady who has engaged me believes that her family suffers from such a curse, laid down back in those days when witches were burned. Apparently, one of those unhappy beings went into the flames imprecating against the old woman’s ancestors unto a hundred generations.

I will not bore you with the details of that cursed family, but will say that in each generation since one member has suffered a grisly demise. Or so goes family yore. My client fears for the life of her favourite grand-nephew and has engaged me to protect him from...well, she seems to think he is endangered by various ghosts or witches or some such thing. Such is my boredom that I would willingly accept any of those explanations.

Bah! 

How I wish that your calm and steady self were here to keep me right.

And now I see someone approaching through the field below. Who might it be? The feared killer? The shade of an ancient witch? The sandwich boy with yet more cheese and stale bread? Any one of them would be most welcome at this point.

I must close now, my dear Watson, with the hope that I might finish this nonsense quickly and return to Baker Street. 

Best,  
Holmes

*

W,

At last! Things are heating up here, my dear friend, and a pretty little puzzle it is. Oh, that you were here, taking notes in your journal. You would miss everything of real importance, of course, but still you would provide a beacon, a shaft of light to illuminate the darkest corners for me. But I am forced to carry on without your wisdom. Which is more disagreeable than expected.

My return home cannot come soon enough.

-H.

*

John,

These words are written in haste and thus without my usual care. I hope you can read them.

You have been known to comment on my impetuosity and how it would one day lead me into disaster and, as always, you were quite correct. My inclination to rush in where no angels would tread has indeed proven to be my downfall.

My feeble attempt to staunch the blood flow has not proved effective. The boy has rushed off to fetch help, but all I can do is wish for the presence of my good and loyal physician. My friend.

Whatever happens, the boy will send this scribbled letter on. There are things that I might have said to you, things that you would have no doubt been dismayed to hear, but nevertheless I now wish that I had told you. And probably it is only the light-headedness I feel as my blood soaks into the mud, but I have an odd feeling that perhaps you already know what I would say. Apparently approaching death has made me whimsical. How dreadful.

I hope you are not disappointed in me, John. Even more fervently, I hope you do not feel anger at me over this ignominious ending.

Our time as friends was all too brief, but it still comprised the best of my days.

With great affection,  
Sherlock

*

My Dear John,

Firstly, I can report that my condition is much improved. I am sure, in large part, that is down to the letter from you, which contained such kind words. It buoyed me more than any medicine or nursing care. It also gave me hope.

Despite your stated intention to do so, there is really no need to disturb yourself by leaving London to journey here. The good news is, I have been declared fit to travel already and my odious brother has discombobulated himself enough to arrange for a carriage that will return me to London, rather than my having to face the train. So on Wednesday I shall at long last return to our snug abode in Baker Street.

John, you cannot imagine how much I am looking forward to that carriage drawing to a stop in front of 221, so that I might look upwards and see your figure standing in the window. I will go no further with that sentimental line of thought, for fear of humiliating myself.

You stated in your letter that we have much to talk about and I am preparing myself for that conversation. With equal parts anticipation and trepidation, it must be said. But I am sure we will manage, as we always have done.

In addition, I look forward to telling you all about my brief hiatus in the windmill, so that you might inscribe it into your journal. I even have a title for the tale to offer you!

Until we are reunited, know that I remain,

Yours so very truly,  
Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Letters From My Windmill by Daudet


End file.
